


The Gods Are Moons and Mummers

by tawktomahawk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternating interwoven timelines, BFFs to strangers, Childhood Friends AU, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Jaime needs therapy and it is evident here, Minor warning for emotional abuse and manipulation, POV Jaime, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, season 3 canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23302480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawktomahawk/pseuds/tawktomahawk
Summary: Jaime and Brienne build a friendship as children. Life separates them for a time, but they are reunited in Robb Stark's camp. Alternating, interwoven timelines. Season 3 canon divergence.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Past Jaime Lannister/Cersei Lannister
Comments: 40
Kudos: 187





	The Gods Are Moons and Mummers

**Author's Note:**

> I've made some minor adjustments to ages, events, and timelines. It's an AU, after all!

When the thought of Cersei is too sharp to soothe him as it usually does, Jaime seeks solace elsewhere.

His mind drifts to afternoons with Brienne in a small sequestered courtyard under a crisp blue sky. Sparring and siphoning smiles from her lips. She was a streak of blue through the heart of his lonely life. A reminder of times when bruises were kisses from tourney swords and blood was a flush in freckled cheeks. He recalls her when his world is ablaze, and the heat from Aerys's fire is too much. Cersei burns like that, too. Brienne calms it all. He slips into memories of her as he would a pool of cool water. They were young and too naïve back then, but even now, after everything, she is his truest friend. 

It is only in these moments that he will admit to missing her. He wonders how tall she is now. So much can change with time.

* * *

Catelyn Tully was once an intriguing girl, but she was wasted on the wolves. Jaime spares a brief moment to mourn the spitfire he remembers. She holds herself so rigidly now. The venerable Ned Stark ruined her, and now here Jaime sits, in mud and shit, a disparaged fool bargaining his name for his life at her feet. He has no blade, and so there is nothing for it. _Honor_. He curses the word. 

The real intrigue is in the corner of his cell. Jaime is too far gone for anything resembling hope, but there is a flutter of recognition in his chest at the towering shadow behind Lady Catelyn. Stark men are all the same; this anomalous creature stirs memories long suppressed. He spares a few insults to the late Lord Stark, hoping to lure Catelyn's guard from the shadows. He is strangely certain it is her. The broad shoulders, the stiff stature, the clenched fists. It’s farcical brutishness, and it belies the softness of the lady he once knew within. The guard shifts on their feet, and in that instant, Jaime knows. His heart gives one great, painful thump in his chest. So much time has passed. _She is taller_. He shoves the thought away. 

"Brienne." Catelyn says the name with steel in her voice, and Jaime is adrift in the sound. He can recall with painful clarity the confusion of his fourteen-year-old self, waiting in the dirt for a sparring partner who never came. Fitting that he should be sitting in mud upon seeing her again. He wants to spit at the gods for the shameful luck of it all. 

She steps out of the shadows. The sight of her steals his breath.

Jaime is too proud to give thought to the state of his hair, the loss of his muscle or the stench of his cell. She had likely been watching him for some time. He schools his face into a neutral position and quirks his lips in a sneer. He refuses to drink her in or catalogue a near decade’s differences. She left, and he was on his own. He will think only of himself now. 

Brienne’s eyes flick over his form, though her face remains as stoic as ever. If she is the girl he remembers, she will take pity on him. If he dulls the parts of himself that have sharpened over time, she may even let him loose. They haven’t seen each other in years, but he once knew her well. He knows that the best parts of her will chafe with him as her prisoner. 

Jaime revels in the moment she meets his eyes. For all the pain she once caused him, she will liberate him now. Catelyn does not know it, but she has given him a gift. She has given him freedom. Brienne will let him go. Jaime will make sure of it. 

"Is that a woman?" He speaks the words only out of necessity, to obscure their familiarity under Catelyn’s watchful eye. He listens for Brienne’s response. Will she rebuke him, deny him, or speak on his behalf?

Brienne grimaces, but says nothing. Jaime figured she wouldn't, but he smothers a pathetic, disappointed twinge in his stomach. He certainly has no plans to reveal their past to Lady Stark; it’s in his best interest for Brienne to keep quiet, too. He believes she will. _Out of loyalty to Catelyn, not to you_. 

Catelyn begins discussing trades. She has a daughter in King's Landing and an insolent Lannister imprisoned in the North. The conclusion is a natural one. Jaime imagines swaths of land, covered step by step by him and Brienne. Not precisely the reunion he had occasionally imagined. His musings must show on his face, because Brienne glares at him. She knows him too well. 

_I won't let you free_ , she is thinking. He knows her well, too. 

Jaime glares back, abruptly consumed by bitterness and fermented longing. _Y_ _ou left me once,_ he nearly says. _Why not again, now that I truly want it?_

* * *

She is nine to Jaime's fourteen, and she is taller than him. It makes Jaime assume they're of age with each other, but then she talks, and he hears the truth in her timid stutter. He mocks her for it, as Cersei would do, and she looks down her crooked nose at him. Jaime finds it strangely menacing. He mumbles some garbled nonsense and walks away, wondering all the while at the haphazardness of her features and the steely blue of her eyes. Lannister men do not cower, he tells himself. He is strangely shaken all the same. 

Two days later, they sup together in the hall with the rest of the daughters and sons of nobles and bannermen. They had flocked to King’s Landing after some hapless lord suggested that the young lords and ladies gather for a summer. Jaime and many others had objected vehemently; for many of them, the summer would be their final months as squires, with only some moons left after. Their protests were crushed mercilessly. 

“To inspire inter-house unity,” cried the witless optimists. Unity, Jaime thinks as he sups, apparently resembles petty gossip and stilted conversations. Any alliance is feigned or a means to a less collaborative end. 

A strange sexual tension simmers beneath every meal, which makes Jaime feel off-kilter. He has no experience with anything aside from his fumblings with Cersei, all of which inspired anxiety and heat in him. He takes a good, long look at Melara, and when he feels nothing, he is distinctly unsettled. 

They are an odd group: children of the Hill and the Stormlands and a few children from the Vale. A thick air of self-importance hangs in the room. They are all on the cusp of responsibility and power, but they are too young yet to know what any of it means. Rumors fly that a betrothal is on the horizon, and the table buzzes with it. Jaime sits next to his sister, who wears a lush crimson gown and titters with Taena Merryweather about Rhaegar Targaryen. Lysa Tully is across from him, avoiding his eyes, and at the end of the table sits Brienne of Tarth, one of the youngest in their group. She is a pallid monster in a misshapen silver dress, and she swallows the casual barbs of every girl in court. 

Jaime keeps an eye on her. Loras Tyrell inquires as to whether her father will remarry, and he looks surprised when Brienne mumbles “no.” A pair of Estermonts exchange pitying looks and ask after her elder brother. 

“Where’s Galladon? Thought Tarth would send him instead of you.” 

“He sails to Breaker’s Bay.” Her voice is curt and sharp and does not invite further conversation.

Jaime tries to meet her eyes, but he regrets it as she lifts her gaze to his. Anger simmers beneath the wavering stillness of her face. Jaime feels as though she might shatter in the faintest breeze, and then the room would certainly freeze over. He looks away towards the others, hoping they direct their torment elsewhere. 

He finds her in the training courtyard the next morning wearing breeches and a tunic that must certainly belong to a boy Jaime’s age. The clothes make her look older and younger both. She wails on a training dummy and stops only to push the sleeves of the tunic up towards her elbows. 

Jaime marvels at her strength, recalling the gangliness of his limbs at that age. He had been—still was—so different. It only makes him more curious. Tyrion and Cersei desperately want to be like him. Tywin intends for Jaime to become like him. This lumbering creature is nine and ugly and, thank the Gods, _nothing like him_. 

He picks up a tourney sword and points it at her. "Lady Brienne," he shouts across the courtyard. "Spar with me!" 

She’s hesitant at first, but Jaime is nothing if not persistent. He beats her, naturally, and when she looks at him as she yields, Jaime does not look away. Lannisters do not cower at sheep. But he’d never seen a sheep with eyes like that. 

* * *

"You will let me free," Jaime demands, infusing his voice with enough pomp to annoy her. "I know you will." 

She says nothing and tugs on the rope tied to the shackles around his wrists. 

"You are much changed, my Lady, and yet you are as stubborn as ever.” Again, she says nothing, and Jaime resolves himself to the same petty provocations that riled her as a girl. “Rumors flit around you like flies.” She stiffens. “I need some excitement here, leashed and led like a hound. There’s no better distraction than truth.” He leans towards her and offers his best sneer. The truth of this particular story does intrigue him some. “Regale me with tales of your dearest Renly. I do so love dead kings.”

Perhaps too far for a segue to freedom, though he realizes his miscalculation too late. She pushes and pulls him at the same time, and the shackles around his wrists chafe and burn. He stumbles for a moment, lost in her current. Her hand yanks at his hair, and suddenly, her hot breath is in his face. Her eyes— _blue, sea, sky_ —are right there, close enough to remember. He hadn’t realized he’d forgotten. 

“You will _not_ provoke me to anger.” 

Jaime has to laugh, because even imprisoned he is himself. “I already have.” 

She releases a blustering sigh and shoves him away to march on. He follows. 

Day after day he is unsuccessful. A sennight in, they stumble across corpses left by Stark men, and Brienne clarifies the bounds of her loyalty to Lady Catelyn.

“I don’t serve the Starks,” she’d said. Jaime is pondering that—the wisdom of swearing oaths to honorable people and the ease of honor when one is prudent about it in the first place—when they are interrupted by Stark foot soldiers. Jaime tries to play the part of a clumsy, stupid thief, but the soldiers ask for a name. Gods, but he and Brienne are imbeciles. He looks at her and knows she thinks the same. It is a rare moment of their old camaraderie, but then she pushes him and is gone.

Brienne turns and slashes. She is a flurry of furious movement, and Jaime stands stunned. The soldiers fall to the ground, one by one, and their warm blood darkens the soil. He hears Brienne panting, and he glances up to see her clean her blade. Her hands are stained red. Hardly a minute has passed. 

There is an ease with delivering death in her movements that takes Jaime aback. He shivers at the sight of it, though he suddenly feels rather hot. He thinks of a girl in silver, of the rage in her eyes, and he is not surprised. All the same, he curses whatever loyalty she held for Renly. This world never wanted her tenderness, and now he sees the result of it. The sweetness of her, now sharpened into some gruesome and dangerous thing. 

She is more like him than ever before.

* * *

They meet in the mornings after breakfast and before Brienne is due for lessons with the other girls. She is particularly horrible at embroidery, not just because she is the youngest of them all. Her hands are too big to achieve the delicacy embroidery requires. Jaime tries to reassure her that big hands are otherwise useful. They can be deft if not delicate, though he does not say so in such tactful words. He is too focused on the joy of discovering a new sparring partner to take note of her small flinches when he comments on her person. 

“Who needs embroidery? Let’s fight! You may not be skilled enough to defeat me yet, but you could certainly tackle me! I’d topple right over.” He is grinning, and she is not, but she does tackle him later. They both smile, then. 

Their friendship is a slow, gradual thing. Its speed can only be attributed to Jaime’s complete disregard for anything between the stages of acquaintanceship and all-consuming companionship. Even so, he struggles to draw Brienne along for the ride. 

For every tenth taunt, he draws a single retort, but in time, he has mapped her wit. Her smiles are rarer, but he doesn’t mind all that much. Her wide lips already spread across her face, and her teeth show often anyways. Though the smiles thrill him, they are not so different from her resting face, which he already sees every day. 

He has only made her laugh twice. 

The first time, they were sparring, and Jaime tripped on his own left foot. Brienne hadn’t even touched him, but he went stumbling to the ground anyways, and he decided to embrace it and give her a show. 

“I yield—I yield, my Lady!” He held his hands in the air for her to see. She stared down at him, unmoved, but when he stood, he slid again in the dirt, and then he heard it. The laughter was far too loud. It echoed in the courtyard, and he would fall a thousand times to hear it again.

The second time, however, he didn’t even have to try. They were speaking of knighthood, dreams, and battles, and he made a passing comment about Ser Duncan the Tall’s lady love. He wondered what she was like; she was Jaime’s relative, after all.

“You know the story of Lady Rohanne and Ser Duncan the Tall?” Brienne was surprised. And pleased, he thought. 

“Of course! He was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! Ser Duncan—what do you know of Ser Duncan?”

She told him of a shield bearing Duncan’s arms that resided in Evenfall Hall. Jaime’s jaw dropped, and he nearly begged for her to tell him more.

She laughed and laughed and laughed. He didn’t curtail his enthusiasm. 

“Tell me!” _Let her laugh if it sounds so sweet._

* * *

They steer clear of the Kingsroad, but even so they are frequently vulnerable in open fields and sparse forests. They meet a farmer who flicks his milky eyes over the rope at Jaime’s wrists. When he comments on their conspicuous route, Jaime tenses. Brienne refuses to kill the man, and they glare at each other a few beats longer than captor and prisoner typically would. 

_Kill him,_ Jaime wants to say, but Brienne is looking at him in such a familiar, righteous way that he refuses to break the moment with demands. They are once again Jaime and Brienne, blade and shield, ruthless and merciful, and he concedes to preserve the feeling. 

“We will not kill him.” She is resolute. 

Jaime shrugs. He felt he’d won something anyways. 

He is still on edge. Brienne shows no signs of relenting in her steadfast duty as his gaoler. It begins to grate on him. The closer they get to King’s Landing, the more he begins to imagine it. The shame of his father, dispassionately collecting his imprisoned idiot of a son. Cersei, golden and too beautiful, cursing him for trying her patience. Tyrion, watching from a bannister, refusing to meet him at the gates. And at the end of it all: Brienne, leaving again, the Stark girl in tow, alone in the midst of war. Jaime despises the thought of it.

If he were to escape and leave her, he would arrive in King’s Landing alone. It would be less disgraceful on all fronts. On his own terms, the ordeal would be almost bearable. 

He begins to needle Brienne. She’s a good fighter, which he’s known since he was fourteen, but he has years on her. Some months in a cage are not enough to erode the edge of time. If they were to fight, he’s confident he would win. 

She ignores him every time. 

“What’s the worst that could happen? I win? You’ve yielded to me many times before. It’s never stopped you from raising your sword again.” 

Nothing.

“Let’s fight. For old time’s sake.” 

Silence.

He despises this mulish ox. So much so, that when they arrive late the next morning at a rushing river, he almost hopes she will pick the water over the bridge. They’d be torn apart by the current. She grew up on Tarth, so she could easily swim to shore. He’d likely struggle for a while and end up further downstream, finally rid of her. Either that or he’d drown. The Gods could decide.

Brienne doesn’t choose the river. Wise of her, probably. She squares her shoulders and marches him onto the bridge, as if to dare any onlookers to question her right to his person. It irks him, so he takes a seat, right there on the bridge.

“Get up,” she hisses.

“No.” Jaime looks at his shackles, turning them this way and that in the faded sun. He watches her step closer to him to pull him to his feet, and he takes the opportunity to slip her sword from its scabbard and leap to his feet. _Brienne, you know better._

She seethes and pulls a smaller blade from a second scabbard, because she is ridiculous. 

They watch each other carefully. This bridge is not their courtyard. Their blades are not blunted. If he wants to escape, he will have to truly win. 

Decisively, he lunges at her. If he can land a thin gash on her thigh, he can wound her enough to slow her pace. Thigh wounds bleed and inhibit, but they don’t kill. It would be a merciful injury; just enough to lend him an escape. 

She parries every one of his blows. 

Gods, but this dance is familiar. They’re both so much bigger now. Everything is the same, but heightened, better. Sharper. Jaime has long wondered at his inability to recall her face in detail, but he knows now: this is why. She exists for him in flashes, in the brief moments when they pause to catch their breath. All else is a flurry of pale skin, steel, and blond hair. Her eyes are all that ground him.

He pushes her back, and she seems just as annoyed and frustrated by him as she always used to be when he advanced on her. He feints left, and she parries right, just as he’d taught her. 

They are both stubborn, dead set on triumph, but this fight is not brutal. It is bitter and sweet, at once. Woe that they should fight again after so many years. Woe that his win would remind him of great loss. 

He grazes the top of her thigh, but it’s too shallow to achieve his aim. 

She halts abruptly and catches his gaze for a moment, her eyes wide and hurt. She shifts from one thigh to the other, and Jaime glances down at the small line of red blooming on her leg. He narrows his eyes. _Deeper._

She attacks him with all of her strength. Jaime hadn’t realized she’d been holding back before. As he blocks her furious blows, Jaime surmises that she hadn’t thought he’d truly hurt her. _I am a Lannister,_ he wants to shout as she knocks him to his knees. He doesn’t get the chance. 

A group of horsemen ride up behind them, and Jaime recognizes them immediately.

_Curse my father_. “My pardons if we’ve disturbed you. You’ve caught me chastising my wife.” His voice is light, but a pit of dread has congealed in his stomach. Even the small thrill that shoots through him at his words cannot dissolve it. 

He is right to be concerned. _Brienne_ , he thinks as she is bound beside him. _I’m sorry._

She can’t hear him, and he won’t say the words. He doubts she’d believe them anyways.

* * *

Elia Martell is to marry Rhaegar Targaryen. The news slips during breakfast, and Cersei stiffens and clenches her fist around her spoon. She is as pale as Jaime has ever seen her. He feels guilty to be relieved by the news. 

“It will be alright,” he reassures her, gently resting a hand on her delicate forearm. Cersei pulls her arm away and sneers at him, all rage and disappointment cloaked in contempt. 

“I’ll be wed to some bumbling fool, and you’ll be Lord of the Rock,” she hisses. “Save your placating words for the Tarth beast. And spare me any more idiotic reassurances about the state of our futures.” 

Jaime sits dumbly, watching her stand to leave. He understands Cersei’s reservations about marriage and the future, if only because she so frequently talks about them. But he had not known she’d placed all of her hope in a betrothal with Rhaegar. Cersei should know better. She should know Jaime would never let anything happen to her.

He thinks about Cersei often that day. For hours, guilt swirls in his stomach and she is all that is on his mind. Late in the afternoon, Jaime’s feet take him aimlessly towards Brienne’s room, the door to which is propped open. Through the space, a fist’s width, he can see Brienne. There are two maids bustling around her, holding her arms up and sticking pins in the seams of her dress. There is, simply put, not enough fabric for her frame. Jaime looks down, and he can see her freckled ankles. He pushes himself to keep walking. 

It is a relief to see her—even just for a moment, even when she isn’t looking back. He can tell she is stiff and uncomfortable. Jaime finds it reassuring that she, too, feels out of place in the mindless, mundane tasks that constitute a life in King’s Landing. Fighting is a reprieve. A reminder that life, at its core, is about survival. The dresses, the feasts, the gossip—it is excess meant only to entertain. 

He sees Brienne in their training courtyard the following morning. She doesn’t smile at him, but she comes to him without hesitation. That alone is a triumph. 

They’re fighting viciously, as usual, when she delivers a particularly nasty blow. Jaime parries, but overcorrects, and on her next swing she hits him on his wrist with the flat of her blunted training sword. Quite hard, if he’s honest, though he makes a show of shaking out the pain and puffing his chest.

Brienne doesn’t believe him. She drops her sword in the dirt and comes closer to him than she’s ever gotten outside of a fight. She grabs his forearm and inspects his wrist. There’s nothing to see, though it might be a bit redder than usual.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Jaime?” She peers down at him, ridiculously concerned. The pain is fading, but she’s looking at him too intently. Oddly, Jaime’s eyes are stinging. There’s a strange ache in his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. 

Jaime pulls away from her and moves to pick up her sword, clearing his throat. “It’s fine.” He hands the sword back to her, hilt out. 

She takes it, still watching him closely. Jaime doesn’t know where to look. His jaw twitches. 

He has no comparison for the way friendship with Brienne makes him feel. He doesn’t know what to give her. With his sister and with Tyrion—especially with his father—he knows precisely what they want from him, and if he’s too dull to pick it up, they’ll demand it outright. Brienne just looks at him. Under her eyes, he feels exposed. _What are you waiting for?_ He frequently wonders. _What do you want from me?_

Her raw concern for him makes him wonder if she’s even waiting for anything. Maybe this is friendship: this safe, quiet courtyard, where if she hurts him, she apologizes and makes sure he’s okay. It’s simple and sweet, and Jaime has nothing to compare it to. In his family, vulnerability is incongruent with safety. To feel them at the same time is a novelty. 

“We’re friends, right?” His voice contains only the slightest wobble, though the Lannister in him hears it plain as day. Brienne doesn’t acknowledge his shakiness; just straightens her back and nods once. Firmly.

Well. That’s it, then. This is friendship. He nods once in agreement, shakes out his wrist, and holds up his sword. 

“Again.”

* * *

Losing his hand is the single-most traumatic experience in Jaime’s life. In the immediate sluggish seconds after Locke's arakh comes down, before the pain suffuses his body, he realizes this. He stares unseeing at the at the gruesome bloody mess between his wrist and his right hand and recognizes it as the end of him. Any Jaime born from that negative space will be a different man. A Jaime he doesn’t know how to be. A tidal wave of pain rears up, and the sight of his severed hand sweeps him under. 

The first days are lost to him. Death’s cruel interlude. There is agony all around him and at his very core. No Hells offer an escape and no Gods grant him reprieve. 

On the fourth day, he jolts awake and stares through blurred eyes at a pale expanse of neck. He sees straw blonde hair and a smattering of freckles as he begins to fade again. His head is on Brienne’s shoulder, he realizes. Her presence is a profound, piercing relief—the only he’s been granted in days. _I can sleep here_ , he thinks. _The Stranger will know where to find me_. 

The next time he wakes, she is wrapping his wrist. She is as gentle as she’d be with a butterfly’s wing, even with her too-large hands, and still the pain is immense. He is nearly certain she is crying, or perhaps the sounds are his own. He succumbs to darkness before he can check, mumbling “friend” against her throat. His tears pool in the hollows of her collarbones. 

Pain makes him young. He whimpers when hungry or unable to sleep, and he curls into Brienne, the only warmth he can find. She soothes him like a mother. Little gestures, such that the Companions won’t notice. _Shhh_ , into his ear. Lips at his hairline. He wakes once to her rearranging his body in a more comfortable position.

He doesn’t quite come back to himself. At some point, the darkness simply decides it doesn’t want him anymore. Remaining awake is torturous. The only saving grace is Brienne, a steadfast bulwark between his wasting body and the earth. 

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t eat. He tries to remember moments of sweet innocence in Brienne to pass the time. He has always thought of her while the world burns. This time, the fire is inside him, and she is right here. Memories burst forth from some lonely compressed part of him. Freckled ankles peeking from her dress’s hem. Dusting dirt from her woolen breeches. Hiding her smile at the first taste of a perfectly ripe peach.

She’s mopped vomit from his face, now. Wiped shit from his body. He pissed himself once, smushed up against her on their horse, and he had smelled it on her later. His hand rots between them, and he falls asleep looking at it, noticing the dirt still lodged beneath the fingernails. 

“Jaime.”

He lifts his eyes from the fire lit between them. _When has she last spoken my name?_

“What are you doing?” Her voice is gentle.

_Nothing_ , he thinks. “Dying.” 

She calls him a craven. Teases him with revenge. He just watches her. _Revenge._

Against whom? Vargo fucking Hoat? Hatred had never willed him forward; quite the opposite. 

He thinks of Cersei, of Tyrion, of young Joffrey. He continues to watch Brienne as he bites into his bread. _I am no craven_ , he scoffs as he swallows. _I am a lovelorn fool._

* * *

“Do you want children, Brienne?” 

They are laying in the dirt, watching the clouds roll over the square patch of sky above their courtyard. She will be expected to have children, but Jaime wonders whether she truly wants them at all. 

She shrugs. 

Jaime tries to imagine Brienne when she’s older. She’ll likely be even taller. Perhaps no prettier, but eyes don’t change with time. 

“What do you want in this life?” Nudging her arm, he whispers, “Not what you think you’ll get. What you _want._ Anything.” He points to the sky. “Could be that cloud right there.” 

“The one that looks like a shield?” She’s smirking, but if he turns to glimpse it she’ll shutter it away. He just listens. 

“Yes. That one.” 

“I want...to be a knight. Like Ser Duncan or Ser Arthur Dayne. I’ll probably end up tall enough.” Her voice takes on a nasty, sharp edge. Cersei uses it sometimes on others, but Jaime never knows what to do when Brienne uses it against herself. He doesn’t like it. 

She takes a deep breath. “If it were possible, I’d like to be known but not seen.” 

Brienne often surprises Jaime when she opens herself enough for him to glimpse inside. She is so young. He sees the proof of it in her rounded jaw, timid voice, and hunched shoulders. But occasionally, she speaks with blistering eloquence, and the words drip with wisdom and pain. 

Jaime furrows his brow. “Invisible?” 

She nods. 

He nudges her again. “If I’m to knight you, I’ll need to see you to ensure you’re tall enough,” he tells her. 

She laughs. It’s the third she’s shared with him. He can’t help but turn to witness it this time. Thrillingly, she lets him look. 

* * *

Harrenhal appears on the horizon suddenly, banners of the flayed man whipping in the wind. Hoat orders Jaime to dismount Brienne’s horse, and the Companions demand that he walk the rest of the way to the castle. They pull him forward by a rope secured around his waist, and it is only the wind at his back that keeps him upright. 

Their weary group arrives in the courtyard without much fanfare, and still everyone stops their bustling work to observe their party. Jaime can only imagine what a sight he makes. Filth, mud, rot—all manner of unspeakable things cake his body, not to mention the rotting limb at his neck. He feels their eyes scrape his form and settle on the gorey end of his wrist. 

Roose Bolton greets him and drags him about. Jaime forces words through his burning throat—"Lady Brienne"—and Bolton flicks his wrist at a few loitering servants in the courtyard. They rush out to Brienne, and Jaime is pulled within the halls. A deep twinge of unease flares in his stomach at their separation, but his vision is blurring and he feels near vomiting anyways. 

Bolton’s presence is chilling. He walks at a normal pace, forcing Jaime to stumble behind him, and offers no news of King’s Landing despite Jaime’s hoarse inquiries. He remains stony and silent, depositing Jaime in a plain, unassuming corridor. A mousy man with a smarmy smile opens a door and greets Jaime, fastening his eyes on Jaime’s wrist. With a gleam of interest that spikes Jaime’s queasiness, he leads Jaime inside. _Where is Brienne?_

The room reminds him of a Maester’s chambers, though this man wears no chains. There are pots and poultices gathering dust on window sills. A few books and scattered pieces of parchment litter a large table at the center of the room. The man motions for Jaime to take a seat in a chair near the fire. He then gathers a leather bundle in his arms and drags a stool over to join Jaime. The sound of wood on stone drills into Jaime’s mind. He closes his eyes and flinches. 

“Apologies, Ser,” the man says. “My name is Qyburn.” 

“You’re no Maester,” Jaime spits, though the possibility of relief stifles the anxiety he feels beneath Qyburn’s gaze. 

“Indeed. But I have trained as one. Let me see.” His words are greedy. He reaches his hand out—clean, Jaime notices—and Jaime displays his remaining arm to the man’s beady eyes. 

“I trust you know who I am,” Jaime rasps. “A Lannister, to be returned to my father in good health.” 

The gleam in Qyburn’s eyes dims. “Yes, Lord Lannister.” 

Satisfied, Jaime nods and slumps against the chair. Qyburn unrolls his leather bundle, revealing a set of sharp, shining tools. Jaime closes his eyes and braces himself for more pain, but Qyburn's clammy fingers merely settle against Jaime’s forearm. He twists the arm this way and that and sets the leather bundle on the floor, mumbling about a pot of boiled water. 

He cleans Jaime’s wounds, and Jaime bites his tongue to avoid screaming at the pain. Qyburn inspects the residual arm with unsettling interest, bringing his face close and prodding at the reddish veins straining for Jaime’s elbow. 

“Hmm,” Qyburn says. “What you needed was searing heat.” Jaime is in too much pain to stomach the man’s pontificating, but he has no energy to craft a cutting response. “It is essential to the successful removal of a limb. Otherwise there’s blood. Too much to survive it. Most men would have died.” He covers his hand in a potent-smelling salve and brings it towards Jaime’s arm. “You survived somehow.” _Does he sound disappointed?_ “Now do sit still. This will hurt.”

It does.

Jaime thinks he faints, because one moment he’s in his chair and the next, Qyburn has him hunched over as vomit dribbles out of his mouth. Jaime coughs, watching his spittle drip and darken the stone beneath his feet. 

“Drink some water and stay seated like this,” Qyburn tells him, bringing a cup to Jaime’s lips. “I’ll wrap your wrist. When you feel steady, follow the stairs at the end of the hall. They lead to the baths. You’ll certainly benefit from one.”

Jaime does as told. A near hour later, when he stops seeing black spots at the edge of his vision, he takes one final sip of water and leaves Qyburn’s room. 

He trudges down to the baths, exhausted and near collapse, drawn forward only by the promise of clean skin. When he finally reaches the baths, steam swirls through the room and thickens in his throat. It is almost difficult to breathe. He walks alongside the wall and stops short when he notices Brienne, gleaming in the corner of a large tub and oblivious to his presence. She draws a drenched sponge over her pale neck, where he slept for the past days. She is likely washing away his tears. Jaime brings his hand to untie his breeches without much thought, hastening to join her. He simply doesn’t want to be away from her. Not when she’s here.

“There’s another tub!” she exclaims when she notices him, but his breeches have already fallen to the floor. Jaime’s mind cannot juggle wit and bodily coordination, so he focuses on removing his ankles from his clothes and steps into the tub with her. She blushes, though it may just be the warm steam, and she folds her legs up towards her chest. Protecting herself. Jaime wonders what threat he poses now. He is half corpse. 

Unusually, Jaime is at a loss for words. Where to start, when the beginning was years ago?

“Renly.” _Fool._

She watches him, confused. 

“Why did you fight for Renly?” _Why am I asking this?_ Jaime has felt enough pain on this day. He doesn’t seek more, and yet here he is, opening his wretched mouth.

She shifts uncomfortably in the water and doesn’t answer, but the silence is only a prelude. “He danced with me.” 

It was not the answer Jaime expected, and yet it is somehow worse. “You would give him your life for a turn of the room?” Jaime aims for arrogance but fears he sounds like a petulant boy instead. The heat is muddling his mind. 

She doesn’t bristle as he’d expected her to. Her voice is gentle, as it has been for the past days. “It was just a dance,” she explains, “but better a kind king than most others.”

_Do not say it._ “Was I not kind?” They had touched blades countlessly in their courtyard, and every spar had been a dance. 

She doesn’t respond, and the silence thickens. “You were my friend.” 

Jaime has cried a near lifetime’s tears into Brienne’s shoulder, but the words nearly draw more from him. “Were,” he repeats. He is a pitiful well of misery. 

She sits with guarded eyes on the opposite side of the tub, clinging to her knees to hide herself from him. From the monster he has become. “Kingslayer,” she whispers. Jaime hears the curiosity wavering beneath the word, but she doesn’t voice her question. 

From anyone else, the word would make him scoff. He’d leave the tub proudly and make them watch him leave. But from her they make him rage. She just makes him watch her—her infuriatingly blue eyes following his expressions with distrust and curiosity and _betrayal._ Her seed of doubt takes root in his chest and blossoms into fury. 

“Renly rots with Aerys. We are both kingslayers, you and I, and hideous beasts besides.” He gestures at her with his stump, and she surges from the water. 

He’d never imagined her naked form when he was fourteen, nor had he thought to imagine her afterwards. She was too young then, but the proof of time’s raw power stands before him. It is a shock to see her imposing frame glisten in the dim light. The vision brands him, and he blinks once only to see her body against his eyelids. Water slides in rivulets down the sinews of her arms and legs and stomach. His eyes trace her chest and land briefly at the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs. _Warrior and Maiden. Gods._ He feels his cock begin to harden, and his head begins to rush. He has little blood to spare.

She holds herself the way she does while fighting: fierce, hard, and brutish. He likes her this way. Has always liked her this way. He imagines for a moment the thrill of melting away her brutishness, watching her become pliant in his arms, banishing the need for armor....He can only imagine the heat in his eyes, though certainly Brienne thinks it is fever or fury. 

“Forgive me,” he says. “A truce. The years have been unkind.” 

“You need trust to have a truce,” she bites out. 

Her anger should douse the heat in him, but it scalds him instead. Jaime is too hot. The steam stings his eyes. He burns from the inside-out. His heart beats sluggishly inside him, dragging him on and on and on. Brienne is here: solid, cool, and blue. He has never wanted so desperately to be heard by the only person who ever cared to listen. “I trust you.” 

She slides beneath the water, and he mourns the loss of the sight of her even as words gurgle from his throat. The truth of Aerys pours from him like an abscessed wound. _Burn them all._ How long had the words festered within him? Perhaps this vile truth is what has been killing him, not his godsdamned stump. He wants to weep as she looks upon him. 

“If this is true…” she says, but Jaime already knows she believes him. The heat flares inside of him, and he lets himself burn. _Brienne._ He feels her cool skin through the flames and her arms around his body, cradling him like a precious maiden. He thinks he hears her say his name.

* * *

Brienne, Jaime has noticed, speaks strangely about herself for a girl of only nine. Occasionally, Jaime has the thought that she faults herself for her own existence. Jaime finds this preposterous; why should she feel guilty for living? He resolves to remind her that she deserves life. Perhaps doing so will make him feel more in control of his own. 

“—dress didn’t fit,” she says, casting her eyes to the dirt of their courtyard. “They’ll adjust it tomorrow. More fabric at the ankles.” 

Jaime grimaces internally at her dejected tone. He offers her a big grin. “Perhaps it’ll be large enough for me to try! I hear I’m quite handsome. In a dress, I could make a knight swoon.” 

Brienne glares at him, her gaze admittedly stonier than Jaime had hoped. He adjusts his strategy. 

“My mother didn’t like dresses either,” he tells her. “When Father was away from the Rock, she would dress Cersei in breeches and let us free to play outdoors. Better to run in. After Mother died, Cersei had to steal mine. The servants didn’t allow it anymore, not without Mother’s permission.” 

Brienne’s gaze softens, and Jaime continues, encouraged. A pleasant warmth spreads in his chest at speaking of Cersei and his mother this way. “Mother would have liked that you wear breeches. She would have liked it more than the prettiest dress.”

Brienne offers him a minute smile, but it fades quickly. “I don’t dislike dresses.” 

He’d misstepped _again_. Jaime wants to huff in frustration. “You don’t? I thought you liked fighting. You can’t fight in a dress, and so you don’t like them.” 

“I do. I choose to fight. I feel powerful and useful.” Jaime nods; he feels that way, too. “Wearing a dress feels like choosing to be beautiful and failing.” 

_There is shame in failing,_ Jaime realizes. “I can think of more valiant quests than beauty, my Lady,” he tells her. He tries to mediate his voice — too soft and she’ll stiffen like a bow, too hard and she’ll wilt before him. Firm. _Be firm, Jaime._ “Then choose to be something else.” 

“Choose to be ugly?” 

“You owe the world nothing.” 

“And still it makes demands.” 

“Be ugly,” he tells her, and Brienne flinches. “Wear a pretty dress. You’re indebted to no one.” 

Her shoulders hunch, and she hides her face from him. “I can’t be beautiful,” she chokes. “I can’t be a knight. What’s left? To be a mother? I don’t know that I want to be one.” 

She is like a precious piece of pottery in his hands. Brienne—strong, tall, immovable Brienne—is delicate beyond belief, and she is on the verge of breaking. Perhaps she broke long ago, and Jaime has been too awed to notice the cracks. Still, he is young and not particularly wise himself, but she deserves an answer if she has been brave enough to seek one. Words build in his chest.

“Knighthood is not simply a title.” She looks up at him, almost desperately. “To be a knight is to protect the innocent, to be loyal, and to protect those you love. You can do so without kneeling and speaking vows. There is no cloak, no title, and no regard that can make you more than you already are.” _Good words, Jaime. Do you believe them?_

Brienne seems to. She straightens, and the desperation on her face clears. Settles into something firmer and more resolved. She nods once. Jaime feels a tug at his chest—the sweet swell of admiration, welling in the cracks of him. He nods once in response. 

“Shall we spar?” Brienne asks him, voice still delicate but stronger than before. 

Jaime unleashes his most feral and happy grin, and she doesn’t look away from it.

“Yes, my Lady. Let’s dance.” 

* * *

Roose Bolton invites Jaime and Brienne to sup with him, providing barely boiled potatoes, tough meat, and a dull paring knife—audacious cock that he is. It is still the best meal either of them have had in weeks. For Jaime, it had been nearly a year.

Jaime pushes the slab of meat towards the raised rim of his plate, needing leverage to slice into his fare. His knife scrapes obnoxiously. Brienne stiffens, and Roose smirks. 

“I assume you’ll have word from King’s Landing,” Jaime says to distract from his pitiful display. 

“Certainly,” says Bolton. Jaime looks up from his meal to watch the man, whose eyes glitter with cruel satisfaction. “I thought it best to treat your arm first.” 

Jaime cuts his meat with vigor. Brienne slams her fork into the slab before more noise can fill the room. He stares at her fingers for a moment, bitter and grateful both, then cuts the meat into swallowable pieces. “I thank you for dispensing Qyburn. Tell me, is Harrenhal without a Maester? I am indeed in your debt; perhaps I can find you one.” 

Bolton chews thoroughly before answering. “There are better ways to fulfill a debt. You’ve missed much while in your cage, Lord Lannister.” 

“Undoubtedly. Care to inform me?”

Roose slides his eyes over to Brienne. “Renly Baratheon’s remaining forces pledged to Stannis. They converged on King’s Landing.”

Jaime stiffens. The meat is tough and flavorless on his tongue as he envisions the Red Keep, in all its awful glory, shielding his family from horrors he’d failed to prevent. 

“And what of my family?” 

Bolton pins Jaime with a shrewd stare. “They live.” 

Jaime swallows. “Then I’m sure we can agree that it’s in your best interest to return me to my family at once.” 

Bolton takes a long sip of wine and takes another bite of his meal. He chews slowly. Leans back in his chair. “I’m in no rush.” 

“The Starks have demanded Lord Lannister in exchange for Lady Sansa and Lady Arya,” Brienne cuts in. “Disobeying or thwarting the exchange would be a betrayal of King Robb.” 

Roose hides a smile behind his wine. He shrugs again. “That isn’t necessarily my intention,” he says. “Perhaps the two of you would like to regain your strength here before continuing south.” He meets Jaime’s eyes. “Two nights? Three? And then you’ll be on your way. You can tell your father of my unceasing hospitality.”

Jaime resists the urge to narrow his eyes. “One night.” 

Bolton gestures at Jaime’s arm. “Come, Lord Lannister. Two, at least.” 

_The man is buying time._ For what, Jaime doesn’t know. 

He nods in concession. “Fine. Two nights. And then we’ll be on our way.” 

Bolton’s eyebrows lift. “' _We_?'” 

“Yes,” Jaime says firmly. “Myself and Lady Brienne.” 

“You’d risk traveling with an unmarried highborn lady? The rumors aside, you’re hardly fit to protect her.” He glances at Jaime’s wrist, and his mouth twists in mocking pity. Jaime has half a mind to hide his arm beneath the table.

“I can protect myself,” Brienne spits. 

Roose doesn’t look at her. “She stays.” 

“No,” Jaime growls. 

“You’re not in a position to negotiate.” 

Jaime grips the paring knife in his left hand. “She is my betrothed.” 

Brienne jerks in her seat, and Roose’s eyes widen imperceptibly. 

“My father has been encouraging a betrothal for years,” Jaime says. “Brienne was his first choice.” _A thin version of the facts, but true enough._ “He’d be furious to know she was left behind. She is a maiden after all.” 

Brienne sits ramrod straight beside him. Understandable, considering Jaime has just thrown her virginity and a betrothal in Roose Bolton’s face. Bolton watches the two of them carefully, and Jaime sees the moment he decides. He takes a long sip of wine and sits forward in his chair, returning his gaze to his food. 

“Very well, then. You and your betrothed will leave in two nights’ time. I’ll select a few men to accompany you.” 

Jaime lets his arrogance show. He spears a piece of meat with his knife, and brings the tough flesh to his tongue. “Excellent,” he says. Brienne is watching him, but he can’t bear to look. She shakes her head resignedly, and continues to eat her food.

_Betrothed._

* * *

Jaime is slightly confused. The courtyard is empty, but he resolves to wait a little longer. It is not uncommon for Brienne to be late. _Perhaps she is still being fitted for that cursed dress._ He sits on the ground and draws poorly in the dirt. She never comes.

It is only later that Jaime hears whispers of the truth. Brienne is conspicuously absent at dinner, and the disappointed confusion he felt from earlier shifts to worry in his stomach. He eats slowly, listening closely for hints, already planning to ask his father. He’d rather not, but he can brave Tywin for answers. 

Roland Waynwood is talking with his mouth full of pheasant, and between grotesque chews, Jaime makes out the words: “I pity the man with her for an heir.” The girls titter, and Cersei watches him closely. It is all so reminiscent of the way they mock Brienne. She isn’t even here. 

“Imagine being a fisherman on that island! Thinking you’ll get some strong lad to protect and lead you, and then all of a sudden—one lousy storm—what you’ll get instead is some hulking lady—can we even call her that?—playing at swords like a green squire.” 

The pit in Jaime’s stomach drops. He sets his knife aside and leaves the room without preamble, pausing to send a final scathing look at Waynwood. The idiot swallows his pheasant nervously. 

Jaime debates with every step the use of going to his father. He runs through alternatives in his mind, but he can’t think of any. Varys will watch him suspiciously, Cersei will offer half-truths and false sympathy, Tyrion will ask too many questions. 

He arrives at Tywin’s office, half-hoping his father has already retired for the night. It is a foolish hope; it’s far too early, and Tywin beckons him in after his second knock. He doesn’t look up from his desk, and Jaime stands by a chair, waiting to be seated. His father waves an impatient hand, and Jaime sits quickly, ashamed that it has taken less than a minute to irk his father. 

“Yes?” Tywin’s voice is gruff. 

“Is there any news of the Lady Brienne?” Jaime asks quietly. “She was not at dinner—” Jaime doesn’t mention training, “—and I’ve heard rumors.” 

“You likely heard correctly. Her elder brother, Galladon, perished in a storm. His body washed ashore a few days ago. We received the news this morning, and preparations were made for Lady Brienne’s departure immediately. She left early this afternoon.” 

_She left_. The words puncture and deflate him. Jaime tries desperately to school his face into a neutral position. He does not want to display concern or hurt in front of his father, but Brienne is gone, too far to comfort, and he is alone. Now that he has the truth of it, he wants to be as far from his father as possible. His father will pick at this pain like a vulture and render from it some twisted and horrible obligation. 

Tywin looks up from his desk. 

“Lady Brienne is now the heir to Tarth.” Jaime twists his hands in his lap. “It is a small island, insignificant. Strategically, it would be useful only in the event of a siege from the east.” 

Jaime nods. 

“I understand that you and Lady Brienne have become…” Tywin’s face twists, “friends. Of a sort. I allowed it to continue. She will soon be a marriageable lady, despite her inappropriate pastimes.” 

Jaime is still and silent. 

“The missive regarding her brother also contained news of a betrothal. As she is now the heir to Tarth, Lord Selwyn is keen to secure his legacy. She will wed Ronnet Connington when she is of age.”

The words hit Jaime strangely. He is only four and ten, and Brienne is too young to stir any truly romantic notions in his mind, but this day has stolen possibilities, torn them from a future he had yet to envision, and he mourns it as if he had imagined them the entire time.

Tywin is still speaking. “All the better that she is gone. You have no business with her if she is already betrothed. You will discontinue your association. Befriend another maiden. You are four and ten, Jaime. Decisions must be made.”

Fitting, that Tywin Lannister should reduce friendships to the alliances they secure. Jaime wants to escape this room desperately. It is all too much: Brienne’s absence, Tywin’s threat, the idea of marriage. _You are four and ten_. And he will only grow older. 

Hot anxiety slips down his spine. He wants to yell at the Gods and plead with them to halt time. Reverse it, even. That safe day in the training courtyard, looking at the clouds. He could have secured a betrothal with Brienne then. Or something. Anything. Now he is here, alone, and the future yawns before him: cavernous and hungry. Jaime doesn’t know what to offer it. 

“If that is all, Jaime, I have work to finish before retiring for the night.” Tywin sends a pointed look to the door. 

Jaime nods. Stands. Stumbles to the door. His left hand is shaking. He arrives at his room without memory of walking there.

* * *

Roose Bolton sends Brienne and Jaime with a small group of glowering men who polish their steel too frequently and slow all progress. They watch Brienne in a way that makes Jaime nervous, and he takes care to position himself between the men and her body. Brienne notices and scowls at him. He knows she can take care of herself, but she shouldn’t need to prove it. 

The first day, the men stick close to them, clumped together and overly watchful. But they bore quickly, and as time passes, Brienne and Jaime are able to trot on their horses out of earshot. The semblance of privacy is a welcome gift. They have not truly spoken since the baths, and even then, Jaime was not truly himself. Or, perhaps, he was so transparently himself that he now feels uncomfortable and wishes to re-establish his trusted, arrogant veneer. 

The weather warms the further southeast they travel, and the soft breeze ruffles Brienne’s hair. Jaime watches, fascinated. She must feel his eyes on her, because she turns. He opens his mouth to say something cutting, but her voice slices him first. 

“I am in no position to marry.” 

Jaime’s mouth shuts, and his lips press together. The sting of rejection surprises him, but more startling is the swirl of hurt in his stomach. It is reminiscent of the pain he felt years ago, after his father presented his plans for Brienne only to yank them away with the words “Ronnet Connington.” 

“And frankly,” Brienne continues, lowering her voice, “Neither are you. You’re Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.” 

“Do you not wish to marry, my Lady?” Jaime deflects.

“My wishes are not in question. I must marry, and you cannot.” Her voice is prim and flat, devoid of emotion. “That is the way of it.” 

“Hmm.” 

Brienne flicks her eyes towards him, and quickly looks away. “Kingsguard don’t marry. You knew this.” 

“I did.” 

“You’ve stayed by your sister for many years,” Brienne says, and Jaime’s stomach curls. 

_Ah,_ he thinks. She would have heard the rumors. 

“She is the Queen.” 

Brienne meets his eyes and stares at him unnervingly. Jaime dons a languid smile, and her face hardens. Whatever she found in his expression damned him just as surely as any confession. 

“Don’t bargain with betrothals,” she says. “Not when your vows and heart would reject them.” 

“I refuse to leave you with the Boltons,” Jaime hisses. 

“You can get your revenge without me. You can fulfill your oath to Lady Catelyn without me. You’ve wanted to escape me since we left the Stark camp. That was your chance.”

“I’m not bound by revenge, stupid woman. Nor by my oaths.” 

“Your sister, then,” she whispers, though there is no one around to hear. How has she relearned him so quickly? Jaime wonders. Years apart, and mere moons together, and she sees straight through to his mangled heart. Yes, he is bound by his sister.

Jaime’s mouth twists of its own accord. “Aye. Though we’ll soon see what she thinks of her one-handed brother.”

She looks down at her hands, pulling at the skin at her thumbnail. “It ought not matter,” she says, as if she’d never before met a Lannister. 

“Don’t worry for me, wench. I’m quite used to loving those who leave me.” Jaime is startled at the words. They are at once too bold and too pitiful to have been spoken. They hang in the air, and he wishes to grasp at them with his remaining hand and shove them where Brienne can’t see. 

She gapes at him, though her expression shutters before he gets a good look at it. She straightens in her saddle. "You love Cersei," she informs him. Her tone brokers no debate. 

Jaime is so tired of it all. So tired of this pathetic softness that refuses to strengthen within him. 

"Tell me more about myself, wench," he says sourly. Her eyes widen, and he is furious at their innocent blue. She is always surprised at his anger, despite how frequently she summons it. "Tell me. There are so many things I still do not know. Do you wish to speak of Cersei? Far be it from me to dissuade you. Here it is, the whole rotten truth: Yes, I have loved Cersei. I don’t know whether Cersei ever truly loved me. I have never known. She was sweet-tasting poison and I imbibed her too young; there is no part of me untainted. Is that love?" 

Brienne is frozen, and Jaime wants to shatter her. 

"Tell me,” he demands again, “Is that love? Was it worth the years I gave her? She was the only one who seemed to want me. She reveled in my loving her, Brienne. Do you understand? She may not have returned it, but at least she took it. She was all I had.” 

His eyes are stinging, but he will be damned to the lowest of the seven Hells should he cry in front of her now. He pushes his heel into his horse’s side and moves away, leaving Brienne in his wake. He was never able to look her in the eye for very long. 

* * *

The first weeks without Brienne are muddled with confusion and self-blame. It is a reflex learned early under the tutelage of Lord Tywin Lannister. When the pain of her absence still does not ebb, it begins to infuriate him. If he were stronger, more like the son Tywin wanted, that pain would be gone by now. But it needles and hurts him still, and a self-directed anger builds inside him that he doesn’t know how to temper. His excessive emotions have nowhere to go, and they begin to fester inside of him. 

Cersei is there. She is there, and she is beautiful, and she is not Brienne, but that is okay. Cersei takes his curdled love, and she has anger inside of her, too. It can be their secret, their sullied escape. Jaime can protect her, and Cersei needs him. Cersei is enough. She is plenty. She is all he has. 

* * *

Brienne and the Bolton men set up camp in a small forest at the edge of Brindlewood. She moves around him like a skittish animal. Jaime is sharper with her for it. They eat in silence, and she doesn’t approach him until late, when the sun has set and after Qyburn has freshly re-bandaged his stump. He hears her footsteps in the dirt behind him, a familiar heavy pattern, and he glances over his shoulder. She sits beside him on a felled log, facing the other direction. 

“Ser Jaime,” she starts nervously. _Ser._ Ridiculous. He tilts his head for her to continue. 

“I am confused.” 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he desperately wants to laugh. “I made myself clear, I thought.” At his side, he can see Brienne furrow her brow. 

“You’ve made nothing clear.” Her voice is firmer this time, more like the unmovable girl he knew and has since relearned. She sounds almost angry. “Our time together in King’s Landing was just….I was nine and ugly, and we sparred. Galladon died, and I had to leave.” She swallows. “That was the extent of it.”

Jaime’s chest aches to hear it relayed back to him so plainly. _The extent of it._ It pulls at him and threatens the secret sanctuary in his mind—one where he and Brienne grew up, remained the best of friends, and built a world where they both felt safe. Where the Gods were more merciful puppeteers. 

“Were we not friends, my Lady?”

“If we were, it ended when I left.” 

Indeed, it did. Jaime remembers that. The shock of her extrication from his life. There, then gone. Together, then alone.

“Yes, it did,” he says. 

She takes a quick, annoyed breath. “Don’t sound so sad. Don’t play at some grand hurt, Jaime.” Her indignation makes her drop the formalities, and it startles him to attention. The words spear his weak underbelly, the part that has missed her for years. 

“ _Play_? I am many things, killer and oathbreaker both, but I am no mummer.” 

“You act as if I’ve wronged you,” she blurts. “My brother had died. I was the heir to my house. You, of _anyone_ , should understand the weight of that obligation. Don’t shame me for it. I could not become a knight like you. There was no way out for me.” 

He twists to look at her. “It has been a horrible escape, if it is any consolation,” he snarls. 

Brienne glares at him, equally furious. “It is not.” 

“ _Good_.” He takes a deep breath and looks away, somewhere into the trees. _How does one summon courage from prolonged sorrow?_ “I did not feel wronged.” He returns his gaze to hers. “I simply did not expect you to leave so suddenly.” Jaime swallows. “I would have much liked to say goodbye.”

She stares at him searchingly. He thinks her lower lip trembles, though she stills it as his eyes move down to look. They are sitting so close. 

“Why would you not…” her voice thins until it is inaudible, and her throat works around some invisible lump. _Gods help me if she cries_. “Your father sent me off the morning I left,” she tells him. “He informed me I was to wed Ronnet Connington. There was no point to our friendship anymore, he told me. It wouldn’t benefit either of us. He was sure you’d agree.”

Her voice is even smaller now. She is visibly fine, but her voice cracks occasionally as she forces her way through its wobble. “At first, I didn’t think you would. You were always so persistent. But you never wrote. I thought for certain you’d write when you were knighted.” She looks at him, and the pain there is all the more startling because she lets him see it. “It was a merchant who told me. I heard about Ser Arthur Dayne and the Smiling Knight the same day I learned you had been raised to the Kingsguard. Months must have already passed.” 

Jaime looks at his lap. 

“I justified your silence for a long time,” she continues. “It would have gone against your father’s wishes to write to me. But then you joined the Kingsguard, so you mustn’t have been too worried about disobeying him.” She sighs, but there’s no bitterness to it. She just sounds resigned. “I know now why you did it.”

Jaime clenches his left hand in his lap. He hears what she doesn’t say. He’d joined the Kingsguard for Cersei. Brienne isn’t precisely wrong in that assumption. The clear comparison irks him, though. It was not so simple as rebellion for Cersei and cowed silence for Brienne. 

Jaime has never been able to articulate the web of emotions that spun over the years and finally, successfully, fully ensnared him at fifteen. His father. The loss of his mother. His obligations to his family. His guilt regarding Cersei. The mediating act between Tyrion and his sister. Losing Brienne. The Kingsguard and the white cloak had beckoned him beyond it all, and foolish young man he had been, he had allowed himself to be summoned. His problems followed him dutifully. To his everlasting dismay.

“I didn’t know where the Kingsguard would lead me.” He wipes his hand down his face. “To Cersei, yes, but it was also an escape—you said so yourself. At that point, I feared becoming my father more than I feared disappointing him.” He feels her watching him. “When you left, there was just fear. I couldn’t distinguish the two.”

Brienne says nothing, but he thinks she understands. She has always been singularly capable of doing so.

_You could have written me, too_ , he wants to say. It is a coward’s suggestion, the words of a scared, petulant boy, and he knows it; if he wanted to speak to her, he should have found a way. A single raven from her would have brightened an entire year. He tilts his head back to look at the sky. The stars flicker cheerily, mocking him. 

“I thought of you when Dayne knighted me.” It is not an apology. He wouldn’t know where to start. But he doesn’t want her to imagine his life as if he had simply moved on without her. As if she weren’t threaded into every significant moment. 

Jaime lets out a deep breath. His wrist aches. “I missed you. Don’t doubt it.”

She tilts her head to watch the stars with him, and her arm brushes his shoulder. She is quiet, but after a few moments, he hears her voice soft on the breeze. 

“I won’t.”

* * *

The future is a dark and frightening place. The battlefield reeks of death, but surviving is far simpler than living. When the battle is over, the world asks nothing of him. Life looks Jaime up and down, acknowledges that he’s still here, and leaves him blessedly alone, if only for a night. 

The realization frees him. Jaime is fifteen, and the Kingswood Brotherhood fight well—the Smiling Knight fights better—but in the end, Jaime prevails.

_I can live like this,_ Jaime thinks as he swings his sword. Battle after battle, with strands of life strung between. He can go on as long as he is able, and then eventually, one battle will be his last. It could be an honorable life, and glorious besides. There are great men who have lived thus. 

Ser Arthur Dayne knights him afterwards. There are bodies strewn around them. Jaime is exhilarated, breathless, freed. He kneels and repeats the vows like a prayer. 

The phantom weight of Dayne’s sword still on his shoulders, he stands and brushes the dirt from his breeches. He rubs his hands together to brush away the small rocks on his palms, and he thinks of Brienne. 

He looks up to find a shape in the clouds. The sky is endlessly blue. 

* * *

King’s Landing is near now; not close enough to see, but certainly close enough to smell. 

They stop to eat around midday, and a thin mother and her emaciated child stumble past them on the road. The mother’s bony hand clutches her child’s shoulder, and she hastens to get away from the sneering Bolton men. They take one look at the starved woman and immediately look away in disgust. The woman sags in relief, and Brienne, seizing the Bolton men’s distraction, shoves her food in the woman’s hands. 

The woman does not stop walking, but she slows and raises a tremulous gaze to Brienne’s firm blue eyes.

“Take it, and don’t stop walking,” Brienne says. The woman obeys with a quick nod, and something passes between the two women that Jaime tries to decode. Powerful, trusting, courageous. It is a woman’s glance. The strength of it is staggering. 

The woman and her child walk away from them, and Jaime hands the rest of his meal to Brienne without a word, ashamed his impulse had not been the same as hers. How easy it would have been, to give the woman and the child his food. Why had he not done it? 

There are moments in Jaime’s life when the utter privilege of his upbringing is laid bare to him. It is always a punch to his gut. The kindness and intelligence of the commonfolk slice him wide open, and the glimpse he has inside of himself inspires disgust. Wealth and power and status. He has been cruel in this life. He has tried to be honorable, too. But honor had not compelled him to share his food, and still he knows he should have done it. 

“Sansa and Arya,” he says as Brienne eats. “What will we do with them?”

She thinks as she chews. “It depends. We haven’t heard news of the North since Harrenhal. If nothing has changed, I’ll bring them back.” 

“And if things have changed?” 

“Then I adjust my plans.”

_I,_ she keeps saying. Jaime stares at her, but she keeps her eyes fastened on the bread in her hand. 

Jaime wants to call her on it, to draw the confession from her lips. She expects him to stay in King’s Landing, and she expects to leave without him. The thought sends him reeling, but the alternative is also unsettling. 

Could he leave King’s Landing? Could he follow her? It would mean leaving the Kingsguard. Leaving Cersei _._

Brienne splits the piece of bread in half and hands a chunk to him. He stares at it, follows her arm all the way up to her face. He has half a mind to beg her. _You give and give and give; just take for once. Take me with you. Demand that I follow you._ But Brienne wouldn’t. She’s never asked anything of him. 

If he follows her, it will need to be his choice. He reaches out and grabs the bread. 

* * *

Time passes. Gradually, Jaime comes to realize that the sweat that gathers at his neck at the thought of his future and the shaking in his hands at the sight of his father are one and the same. Tywin Lannister is all that Jaime is expected to become. 

Jaime confesses this to Cersei in a frantic letter, and he nearly weeps with relief when Cersei writes him back. She will meet him at an inn outside of King’s Landing on his way home to Casterly Rock. 

_Don’t worry,_ she’d written, and now she embraces him in their small room and explains in hushed tones her plan for him to join the Kingsguard. 

“A guardian of the realm, brother,” she says sweetly. “You’re prepared for that, at least. You’d only disappoint father as Lord of the Rock. You’d fail.” 

Her syrupy voice belies her cruel words, but as she touches his cheek, Jaime decides to ignore it. _It feels good to be touched_ , he thinks desperately.

“If you do it this way, your failure will be intentional. You’ll be rid of him, Jaime. Kingsguard swear for life. It's just what you want. A way out.” 

She continues like that. Listing the possible ways he would fail their father, and all the possible ways he could save her. A tear falls from his eye at some point, and she brushes it away impatiently. Kisses him. Pleasures him. It is all too much.

“Okay,” he agrees. “The Kingsguard. Okay.” 

His father is understandably furious, perhaps more than Cersei had anticipated. The difference between failure and intentional failure is negligible in the face of Tywin’s wrath. But Jaime has decided, and so it will be. Tywin renounces his position as the King’s Hand, and he leaves the Keep in a flurry of disappointed rage.

Jaime has barely begun to appreciate his newfound freedom before the scent of burning bodies becomes familiar to him. 

It is not a smell he had ever desired to know. Nor had he ever wished to understand the limits of humans’ screams. The way the voice cracks and gives way to pain. The way the mouth stays open in silent horror. 

Jaime is horrified from the beginning, but he is irreparably damaged after the burning of Brandon and Rickard Stark. Aerys Targaryen is most certainly a monster, but as Jaime falls asleep practicing the word _stop_ after days of cowed silence, he knows he has become one, too.

And then, Dayne leaves him. The Kingsguard disperse towards the Trident, and Jaime is left in the throne room, alone. The crowned monster yells at his back. The pyromancer comes. _Wildfire,_ Aerys screams, and there is blood. Ned Stark is there with news of his father and fresh condemnation. 

Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without honor. 

* * *

The sun slips beneath the horizon. There is no sunset; a pale yoke simply falls beyond their view. King’s Landing can’t be far now. Less than a days’ ride. Suddenly, Jaime realizes how little he _knows_. Questions bubble to the surface. Tarth. Galladon. Brienne’s father. 

“What became of Connington?” Jaime has wondered for years. 

Brienne snorts indelicately, but Jaime hears the pain. “He’s no husband of mine.” 

He glances at her, at home in the pale blue dusk. “I would hear the tale.”

She shrugs—a pained, delicate thing. “We were betrothed when I was nine, as you know. We met when I was twelve. He denied me the very same day.” 

Jaime would have been seventeen. Too late to offer her anything. “He was a fool.” Too late for the words to mean anything. 

“He lives. He’s a fool still.”

Jaime smiles. “For now. He should hope we never cross paths.”

It is too dark now to see if she smiles, but he’s fairly certain she does. 

* * *

In the wretched aftermath, Jaime almost writes her.

His shaking hand draws a piece of parchment from his desk, and he stares at the swath of blank cream. He wants to tell her the truth. He wants to describe in horrifying detail the scent of charred flesh. He wants to share his crippling disappointment in his idols, Selmy and Dayne, who had watched and listened impassively as children cried and men yelled and women screamed. He wants to string together some tattered sentence that articulates the pain in his imploded world. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know if she’d read it. He doesn’t know anything.

They’d called the war “Robert’s Rebellion.” A comically short blip in time, just enough for the kingdom to shuffle its cards, crown a new victor, and discard the game’s excess. 

Elia Martell and her children were part of that excess. Jaime still sees them when he shuts his eyes. Nausea overtakes him whenever he lets himself think of the way the Mountain had murdered them. Sometimes Jaime thinks about it deliberately. He’ll sit with his nausea and curse the Gods—what Gods?—for taking them and leaving him. Let his stomach lurch. Let bile sting his throat. He lived. Why must he live? After everything, why him?

Cersei marries Robert Baratheon, the King, and Jaime distances himself from her. He can no longer bear the risk of being with her. There would be suffering in the mess they would create together. Jaime could not survive more suffering at his hands. He bears too many burdens already.

He resolves instead to protect, serve, and shield her from the kingdom’s cruelty. She becomes his epicenter, and all that radiates out of him can be traced to her and her desires.

Cersei never asks him questions. She commands, and he obeys. The dance is theirs, or perhaps it is hers, and he fades away, further than ever from joy or kindness or honor. 

On sunny days, he looks up at the sky and lets the blue pierce him. He doesn’t look for shapes in the clouds anymore. They’ve hidden themselves from him. 

* * *

They arrive, finally, in King’s Landing. 

His father greets them at the gate, and his eyes sweep over their party and narrow on Brienne. She straightens and stares back, and something glitters in Tywin’s eyes. 

To Jaime’s surprise, Tyrion meets them there, too. He embraces Jaime and offers Brienne a small smile. It is a sweet moment, and Jaime clutches at it as he is swept into the Keep. 

Later, his father tells him of the massacre at Riverrun over a plate of fruit and cheese. Jaime is immediately nauseous, and he sputters out an objection. 

“Guest right—” he says, far too late. 

Tywin’s face is hard and unchanging. “You were captured, and I was left to protect our House against the North and the Baratheons. I did what needed to be done.”

Jaime’s oath to Lady Catelyn settles heavily on his shoulders. “And what of the Starks who remain in King’s Landing?” His father narrows his eyes. Jaime resists the urge to shrink into himself or busy his hands.

“Only one Stark remains in King’s Landing. Arya hasn’t been seen since Ned Stark’s execution.” Tywin still speaks of the execution as an annoyance. Tactically, Jaime knows his father had disagreed, but it caused Tywin no pain; only frustration. “Sansa is here. She will marry Tyrion. I have decided.” 

“You will release her to Lady Brienne—” 

Tywin slams his hand on the table. “You’re a reckless fool,” he thunders. “I would not let her go so easily. _Think_ for once in your life.”

Jaime swallows. 

“What do you want, boy?” 

He tries to infuse his voice with authority. “Sansa Stark,” he says meekly.

Tywin nods. Cold, approving. “And how will you get her? Joffrey is king, and he wants her here. I want her here, and I am the Hand. How will you appease us?" His father’s voice reminds Jaime of his lessons from childhood, sitting in his father’s office and shaking through lessons about political maneuvers, sieges, and battle strategies. “What do I want, Jaime?” 

Jaime stares. “For me to be Lord of the Rock.” 

“Correct. And what does Joffrey want?”

He thinks of Barristan Selmy. “To cleanse the Kingsguard and appoint his own.” 

“Right. Now,” Tywin sits forward, folding his hands on the table. “What’s this about Sansa Stark?” 

Jaime takes a fortifying breath. He sees now. It's his father's game, but Jaime must make the bargain. “In return for Sansa Stark," he says, "I will renounce my vows to the Kingsguard and claim Casterly Rock.”

Tywin lifts his chin. “She is betrothed to Tyrion.”

“Tyrion will join us at the Rock.”

“Hm. And what of the Lady Brienne?” _His father's final card._

“She will join me as well.” Jaime’s voice is no longer shaking. He knows this game. 

“She is an unmarried Lady,” Tywin says. 

Jaime leans forward and plucks a slice of peach from the table. He chews, swallows, and meets his father’s eyes. “Not for long.”

Tywin’s eyes gleam. “Then we have an agreement.” 

* * *

Cersei is tired and radiant. She hands him the swaddled Baratheon babe, her and Robert's son. Jaime curses himself for it, but the sight of the small child spurs his unruly and unloyal imagination. He imagines a boy, tall and grown and bright-eyed. He imagines how his life would be different if this boy were his and Brienne’s. 

Cersei demands Joffrey back. Jaime does not resist, and he places the boy back in Cersei’s arms. She dismisses him quickly. Easily. Her eyes are fastened on the child, and Jaime leaves the room without a backwards glance.

He feels untethered. As if he has forfeited some vital part of him but can’t quite remember when he made the bargain. He supposes it doesn’t matter. He is lost, regardless.

_So this is the way of it_. Life. One choice after another, and soon you are buried beneath the realm of possibility. No wonder the Hells are below. With his decisions, Jaime has nearly reached them, and he still has yet to die. 

* * *

There is no room for Cersei in Jaime’s plan. 

“You are secure for _now_ , Cersei,” he urges her in the throne room. Joffrey sits on the iron throne, dragging his finger across the dull blade of a sword. “But people are angry. They’re hungry. We’ll need to feed them, to care for them, to heal the kingdom—” 

“Stop telling me what to do!” she hisses, glancing about frantically and rising to her feet. “My son is the _king_. I am his mother. No one can touch us.”

Her emerald eyes glint with manic determination, and Jaime holds his arms up to placate her. She grimaces in disgust and sits down. 

“Get out,” she tells him viciously. The strange tension that has always existed between them repels him instead of propelling him towards her. 

Jaime takes a step backward. “When I leave, I will not come back.” The words are shaky, but he means them. 

Cersei scoffs. “You will come if I demand it.” 

Another step backward. “I will not.”

“Go then. If you have nothing to offer me, go.”

Jaime hurts to hear their relationship phrased so aptly. But truly, he has nothing to offer her anymore. No sword hand, no drive to protect another cruel king, and no choice but to follow Brienne. 

“Be smart, Cersei,” he says, and then he turns to leave. 

He hears her laugh as he shuts the door. 

* * *

There is no greater lie than peace. 

The Lannisters are justly hated, and Baratheon’s control over the kingdom was too tenuous to survive his death. 

Jaime fights viciously. For Cersei, he supposes, and for peace, the politician’s promise, but he has nothing else to do and no honor to waste. 

He’s unsure whether he lets himself be captured. It may be that he is truly bested. 

They lock him up all the same. He is beaten. Broken. Caged. His guards speak, but the words are like a dream.

_Five Kings. Ha! Long live King Robb! We’ll take out Renly first, and his Rainbow Guard...did you hear they’ve cloaked a woman? Great ugly beast. They say she’s Brienne of Tarth…_

* * *

A servant tells him that Brienne is in the White Sword Tower. He finds her there, leaning over the White Book. He’d gone to her the night before and held her as she wept at the news of Catelyn Stark. Brienne had watched him strangely when he said he would leave with her. He’d explained himself best he could. _I want to,_ he'd told her. _I need you,_ he'd told himself. 

“I’ve commissioned armor for you,” Jaime says, snapping back to the present moment. “And a dress. Long enough to cover your ankles.” 

Brienne lifts her head and stares at him. 

“Thank you,” she says after a brief pause.

Jaime swallows. He is reminded that he had left out mention of their betrothal the night before. It’s possible she already knows. She seems to need only a glimpse of him to learn all that he cannot say.

He glances at the White Book, and his face firms in resolve. “I am the heir to Casterly Rock.”

Brienne nods. 

“I will need a wife.” She doesn’t move, and his heart begins to pound. He opens his mouth to say something. No sound comes out. He simply stands there, clenching his left hand. It is a pitiful proposal. “You and I...Not just yet,” he finally chokes out. “But if we embark alone on a journey through Westeros to find Arya…”

She nods once in understanding, an appropriately solemn ‘yes’ to his oblique request for her hand. She makes up for it. 

“My honor would not withstand a night alone with you, let alone moons,” she says before flushing an intense shade of red. Jaime smirks around the smile building on his face. “I mean to say that—others would assume, wrongly—”

“Wrongly?” he says archly.

She flushes deeper, and he smiles lazily, reaching into his scabbard to pull out a Valyrian blade. His father had given it to him the night before. “You will have to re-train me in swordplay, my Lady.”

She nods again, grateful for the segue but wary of the heat layered beneath it. 

He walks slowly to her, balancing the sharp edge of the blade on his golden hand. 

“This is yours,” Jaime says. 

Brienne freezes, her eyes catching on his. “Jaime—”

“It’s yours, Brienne. I’m yours. Take it. Please.”

Something in her face crumbles, and she reaches for the sword. Her fingers brush his, and Jaime watches, transfixed, as her long, callused fingers wrap around the hilt and grasp it. Her grip is firm, and she lifts the blade with one arm, biting her lip at its weight. 

Jaime’s breath catches in his throat, and his cheeks feel warm. 

“Y-you’ll need to name it.” He remembers mocking her for her stutter when they were young. Look at him now; reduced to mumbles at the sight of her hand. 

Brienne doesn’t hesitate. 

“Oathkeeper,” she says. 

The name settles in his chest, precisely where his heart pounds. Who needs Gods? Jaime has her.

* * *

When he was imprisoned in camp, Jaime overheard bits of news. The guards and soldiers talked over dinner, and if Jaime pretended to be asleep, he could stay informed about the realm around mouthfuls of stale bread and dried meats. 

The men rarely spoke about his sister. If they did, it was with hushed voices and cruel monikers. Mostly they worshipped Robb Stark and grudgingly lamented Stannis Baratheon’s gift for battle strategy. 

The night before they threw him in the cells, he heard them celebrate the death of Renly Baratheon. They got roaringly drunk and laughed about shadows.

“The big bitch,” they’d said. “Brienne the Beauty. She killed him! Slit his throat right there in his tent. Ran away in the night! Did us a favor, eh? I’ll have to thank her if I see her. Guard my back though, yeah?” They laughed and sneered, and Jaime had been nearly certain he'd misheard. 

That had been two nights before. The cells had no soldiers spewing gossip over dinner. Only a single guard, posted quietly outside of his cell. 

* * *

Jaime brings her back to their courtyard the night before they leave. The dirt beneath their feet has pressed solid under years of rain and disuse. Weeds creep up the edges of the walls, desperately trying to reach the sun. 

“It looks nearly the same,” Brienne says. Jaime nods. It is they who are different.

“I never came here,” he tells her. He can feel her eyes on him, gently asking why. As always, Jaime is compelled to tell her everything. “It was our place. What would I do here alone?” _Sit in the dirt, think of you, and find shields in the clouds._

“You could have practiced not tripping in the dirt—”

She is interrupted as Tyrion’s young squire stumbles through the door. As Jaime bid, Ilyn Payne and Addam Marbrand follow closely. 

Brienne shifts on her feet and takes a small step closer to Jaime, her shoulders stiffening slightly.

“Not to worry, I invited these men myself.” Jaime turns toward her, spinning on his left foot. Without his white cloak, the movement is less gallant than he would have preferred. She watches him warily, disliking the attention and additional eyes.

“Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime starts, and his voice sounds strange in his throat. He clears it once; this must be perfect. “Brienne of Tarth, though I am no longer Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, I am indeed still a knight. My honor, or lack thereof, I should say, precedes me. But yours, my Lady, has never been in question. For that you have always been worthy of knighthood, and luckily, I need only one hand and my title to offer it.” 

Brienne’s eyes widen. Her stance is stiff, as though she expects to be broken from a reverie. That won’t do. 

“Kneel, Lady Brienne.” Jaime’s hand flexes on his sword. The demand sends a small rush through him. He is also slightly nervous; he knows the vows back to front, but he must use his left hand to bring the sword to her shoulders. She does as bid, and when she settles on her knee and looks up at him, the world falls away. 

_Did I look at Dayne so reverently?_ He wonders. He likely did, but he doubts Dayne felt quite as unmoored by it as Jaime feels now. 

The vows are simple. He watches them land and sink into her freckled skin. When she stands, she offers him a teary, elated smile that obliterates all others she has ever deigned to share with him. 

Marbrand, Payne, and Podrick offer their congratulations and witness, and then leave Jaime and Brienne alone together. The harmony of their past and present sings in the silence. 

“I feel as though I swore vows under you long ago,” she tells him. Soft and shy. The words are painfully sweet. “No cloak, no title, no regard”—is she quoting him?—“can make us more than we already are.” 

Jaime can’t bear the sweetness of her, here where their memories swirl around them. Instead he sits in the dirt and pats the ground beside him. She moves ungracefully, and once settled, they watch the sky together. 

“Wench,” Jaime starts, and Brienne huffs a fond sigh. “I know you didn’t kill Renly. Not because oaths didn’t allow it. You believed him to be a good man.” 

She shifts and places her hand in the dirt, inadvertently brushing his own. He twists his hand quickly, grabbing it, and she yields to him. Lets him hold it. 

“You made the honorable decision killing Aerys,” she whispers. “You don’t deserve men’s scorn. You’re better than all of them combined.” 

A part of him wants to cry. All other parts want to kiss her. He settles for grasping her hand and slotting her fingers between his. Turning his head to look at her. 

He has always loved to look at her. 

* * *

The small cell reeks of musk and piss, and the damp floors are far from the comforts of the Lord Commander’s quarters or his chambers at Casterly Rock. Jaime leans against the wall and falls into fitful sleep only when the aches and fatigue win the battle against his wits. 

Tonight, the guard standing outside of his cell is a mild-tempered one, so Jaime lets his eyes droop. 

_He is in a room, large and without windows. Jaime glances about; the room looks oddly familiar_ — _there, above the fireplace, a large golden lion head rests on the mantel. This is Casterly Rock._

_It is too dark in the room to see well, but Jaime can make out shapes in the darkness. Small shadows_ — _children, he realizes, huddled together in the corner of the room. Brienne appears before him, older and harder than he has ever known her, a blazing sword held in her hands. Relief and terror swell within him, but he mirrors her as she turns to face the door. His own sword lights aflame. There are thuds and shrieks in the distance._

_Brienne widens her stance, and he is struck by her bravery, by the sheer heroism of putting herself between the fury beyond the door and the children at their back. She is as magnificent at death’s threshold as any could hope to be in life. A certainty settles in Jaime’s gut; he is witnessing his own end. Perhaps Brienne’s end, too, and the children’s….Determination clenches in his gut. They will not go quietly. A slam against the door. They will not_ —

Jaime jolts awake. A gasp tears from his lips, and he wipes furiously at his eyes. It takes a few moments for him to calm, for him to clear the vision of the darkened room from his mind, but a prickling sensation pulls his eyes towards the hall outside of his cell. 

Cold, brown eyes pierce him through the darkness. Catelyn Stark watches him contemplatively, standing next to the guard. Some large, hulking creature stands behind her, but it is too dark for Jaime to see. 

“Kingslayer,” she says, and the guard lifts his keys and unlocks the door to his cell. 

“Lady Catelyn,” Jaime says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

* * *

Jaime and Brienne stand just inside the gates of King’s Landing, saddling their horses to leave. Neither Joffrey nor Cersei had bothered to see them off, preferring to sit in the throne room. Tyrion and Podrick loiter by the gates, and Sansa stands hunched next to Sandor Clegane. Brienne wears her blue armor, and at the sight heat coils in Jaime’s stomach. Unable to resist, Jaime pulls her aside. Hidden behind Brienne’s mare, he flashes her an excited, boyish grin. He sees her press her lips together to resist smiling back, but the corners of her mouth turn up. Her eyes sparkle at him.

“I’m happy to leave this place,” he tells her.

“I am as well.” 

“It will be a long journey ahead for the two of us.”

“Yes.”

“You and me.” He steps closer to her, and she takes a quick breath. He sees her chest raise with it.

“Yes.”

“Everyone will think I have besmirched your honor.” A flush gathers at her neck. 

“Yes.” Is he imagining it, or does she say the word breathily? 

“And if I truly plan to? If I plan to marry you after it all?” He is so close to her face that his nose brushes hers. When she inhales, she steals his breath. “Would you say yes?” He says it against her mouth. 

“Yes,” she laughs on a sigh, and _oh_ , he has heard her laugh before, but he has never _felt_ it. A fourteen year old version of himself jumps triumphantly in his chest, and he kisses her. Firmly. Not too soft, else she’d run away. Not too hard, or she’d rear up with reproach. 

Firm. Her broad, perfect lips against his. His hand on her solid hip. She has to _know._ She must know that he is hers. That he’d choose her in every life, so long as he could find her. That the storm of time had wreaked its havoc and swept him back to her. He pulls away, just enough to watch when her eyes flicker open and witness him. He licks his lips to taste her. 

Strings of battles, survival until death. Jaime remembers wanting it. No longer.

He doesn’t want death, for all Hells are here and all Heavens must surely be barred to him. He does not want death at all. Brienne is the heaven he would pray for, and he need not die to cherish her.


End file.
